


from ruin

by penhaligon



Series: Watcher Kit [10]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penhaligon/pseuds/penhaligon
Summary: The Watcher reforges Whispers of Yenwood and has an audience.
Relationships: Abydon & The Watcher, Modwyr & The Watcher
Series: Watcher Kit [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1271783
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	from ruin

**Author's Note:**

> It's disappointing that there aren't more substantial interactions with Abydon, since the Watcher is indirectly responsible for restoring him, and I think an untempered Abydon would be especially interesting, to say the least.

You have little love for the bathhouse and its cloying warmth, but the others are happy to ease the aches of a hard, skirmish-filled week in its waters, and so you excuse yourself and head next door alone. Alone, of course, has a flexible meaning nowadays, between the souls trailing your footsteps through the ether, and the sword at your side, but you breathe a little sigh of relief when you enter Marihi's Metalwork and Modwyr has nothing crabby to say about the weapons on display.

After you exchange greetings with the Marihi in question, you pull a few carefully wrapped pieces out of your pack and set them down on the counter, unwrapping them for Marihi's curious eyes. "Can anything be done with these?"

The fragments of Whispers of Yenwood lay atop the counter, making up the bulk of what you'd brought in and missing enough in proportion that you know any attempt to reforge it would need it to be supplemented by something else. That, you hope, can be achieved with the other broken pieces on the counter. A few gleaming shards of adra-based weaponry lay alongside Whispers, all that remains of Drawn In Spring, and a large steel chunk makes up what is left of Abydon's Hammer.

Whispers had been lost, until it wasn't, and Edér had dug out the rest for you, all that he'd been able to find that he knew you had some attachment to. You figure that you might as well try to make something new out of the mess.

"Ekera, but these wonders have suffered greatly!" Marihi says. She eyes Whispers appreciatively, but she picks up the green shards first. "I say, I have rarely seen adra shaped like this in my line of work. What happened to it?"

"It, ah... it exploded?" you say, or at least, that's your best guess. "It used to be a dagger. Drawn In Spring." One that you'd always carried on you, and from the tests you'd run on the shards, the most you can figure is that some proximity to the newly awakened adra statue had shattered it. You're lucky that the resulting pieces hadn't sliced right through you.

"I sense a tale behind that one," Marihi says, giving you a curious look, and she moves to the steel chunk next, hefting it up with an even brighter gleam in her eyes. "And what is _this_? I feel Abydon's hand upon this one." Her fingers trace what remains of the toolmarks etched into the steel.

"It's... been blessed," you say, and you don't mention that it had belonged to something once wielded by the god himself. "It was part of a hammer."

Marihi runs a hand over the remnants of Whispers and the runes engraved there, then holds the steel up with one hand and plucks up an adra shard with the other, her eyes moving between them and Whispers. "I say, you must take better care of your things," she says, but she looks thoughtful as she sets the pieces down. "These would be enough to replace what this one has lost," she continues, ghosting a hand over Whispers once more. "They yearn for each other, though I cannot say why."

You have your theories -- something about soaking in the presence of adra veins for years and years -- but you keep them to yourself. "So you can do it?"

Marihi thumbs her chin, her eyes shining at the prospect. "For three thousand pires," she says, "I can make you a sword the likes of which Deadfire has not yet seen, and you will tell your foes that Marihi sent you."

You go to reach for your coin purse, and the sword at your side trembles, as another presence tickles at the edges of your senses like a mind awakening from a nap. "Don't see what's so special about that thing," Modwyr says, metallic and waspish, and Marihi's face goes slack in astonishment.

You sigh as your fingers come to rest around the purse on your belt and hesitate there, and you offer Marihi a grimace. "I have a lot of unusual weapons," you say, by way of explanation, and your hand drifts away from the purse to gesture to the blade that hangs near it. "This one... talks."

"And she ain't keen on being talked about like she ain't here!" Modwyr says, while Marihi stares. "What d'you need _that_ for? I'm right here."

Calmly, you unhook the coin purse and place it on the counter, like this is a normal conversation, like the blacksmith's eyes aren't bulging. "I'm not replacing you," you say, pulling at the drawstring. "These are just... important to me. And _that_ one keeps following me." You hesitate, then seize on a sudden inspiration. "I'm not going to throw a weapon away just because I find a better one."

A moment of silence stretches out slow and ponderous, as Modwyr considers it and Marihi's gaze turns hungry. "Well," Modwyr says, less huffy, "that's good and proper then. I s'pose I can share, if it's really that important to you." She rattles in her sheath again. "It's not so bad-looking, but it's not gonna like being handled by a stranger. Maybe we got a few things in common."

"What?" you ask, but Modwyr chooses that moment to retreat back into whatever passes for slumber, the sense of her presence fading from your mind in a rush of begrudging acceptance. You huff in annoyance, then return your gaze to Marihi, your hand hovering uncertainly over the coin purse. "Ah... sorry about that?"

Marihi's eyes remain fixed on the blade at your side. "Ekera, if you would like me to take a look at that one too," she says, "I would do so for free."

You shift your stance, pointing Modwyr's sheath towards the door. "Just these," you say, nodding to the shards on the counter and digging around in the coin purse.

"Very well," Marihi says, only a little sadly.

But when you hand the pires over, and Marihi goes to wrap her fingers around Whispers of Yenwood's hilt, she freezes. She frowns down at the shards and makes no move to lift the remains of the sword, as she runs her eyes up and down what's left of the blade. "Your talkative friend may have been correct," the blacksmith says, lifting intrigued eyes to meet yours. "This one cares not for intrusion."

"It has... a history," you say. A nasty one, and you don't know why you've been so bent on cleansing of it that, but it's been quiet and docile since you'd laid claim to Caed Nua and driven every curse out from under the keep.

Well... almost every curse, anyway.

But not docile enough, apparently, because Marihi uncurls her fingers from around the hilt and shakes her head. "I do not know if this Whispers of Yenwood would emerge as it once was, let alone better, if it suffered my hands to shape it."

You shoot a glare down at the fragments of the blade, as it lays there innocuously and obnoxiously. Bad enough that you have one ornery and possessive sword. You sigh again, pressing your lips together and thinking. "What if... I gave it a go?"

Marihi's eyes widen. "Ekera, you know how to work a forge?"

"I know the basics," you say. You're familiar with metalwork from animancy and the adra jewelry you've crafted over the years, and the White Forge had soaked in more than enough Pargrunen memory for your cipher's hands to pull forth skill that you'd woven into your physical hands, even after their souls were free. It's not the same as the hard-won experience of a master craftswoman, but it'll do where misbehaving swords are concerned, and you can no doubt pick up some of Marihi's memories from her forge while you're at it.

Marihi grins in interest, looking you up and down. "Fifteen hundred pires, then, for use of my back room," she says, then chuckles. "I would watch, if only to see you and your strange weapons in action, but I do not think this beauty would appreciate that." She gestures to the shards upon the countertop. "Have at it, my friend."

* * *

You fall into the rhythm easily enough, once you start. The sense of Marihi lingers in the room even when she retreats, soul traces that you pluck at until the resonance of the skill they retain becomes familiar, like they are your thoughts and instincts instead of hers. You don't let yourself think about it too much. You act, heating and shaping and annealing and grinding and cooling and hardening and tempering, and working the adra into the pommel instead.

You lose yourself in the work, unaware of the hours passing. You work on the pommel last, where your own expertise takes over, and it's a small thing to use what copper Marihi has on hand to drill and affix the pommel into an imitation of the pendant around your neck, a small seat of essence in a pale imitation of the mechanisms behind the housing of a soul.

It's when you're utterly engrossed in this that Modwyr finally speaks up again. "What are _you_ doing here?" the sword demands, her sharp voice drifting over from where you'd leaned her against the wall.

Your concentration breaks. Your head snaps up, and all at once, you're aware of the overpowering tang of spark and metal, aware that it's not just Modwyr's attention that's been roused. The wires now secured around Whispers of Yenwood's pommel are not quite set, so you lunge for Modwyr instead. The sword's blade comes up between you and the other presence in the room as you put your back to the door, until Modwyr's voice breaks through your initial alarm.

"Can't kill this one," she says, with a steel-rattling sigh, "unfortunately."

The tang grows, and the clang of hammer to metal resonates in your ears and deep beneath your skin. _Be at ease, Watcher,_ the forge says, a rumble through your thoughts.

Marihi has a great thing of brick and metal built into the wall, and last you'd paid attention to it, it had been cooling. Now the coal blazes, though no spark or bellows had given it life, but somewhere beyond your view, a bellows gushes all the same, like the breaths of a great beast. Something moves within the forge, and you start to breathe normally again, but you don't lower Modwyr, watching as flames and coals and sparks swirl and coalesce.

An arm grips one wall of the forge, then another, and a figure pulls itself out. It's more coal than fire, but the twin flames of eyes gaze out from the head that follows the arms. As a foot made of coal touches the ground, as the figure straightens to full, towering height, metal strips itself from the weapons on their racks and from Marihi's stock, liquid silver flowing across the ground towards the figure and climbing up the coal limbs. It hardens over the figure, transforming a thing of black coal and orange flame into a thing of shining steel, not unlike a suit of full-body armor or a construct, if either had the finely sculpted form of a kith.

Eyes made of fire stare out from the hooded depths of its sockets. Those eyes regard you and the sword you have not yet lowered, before the figure's head swivels down to the work table upon which Whispers lies. It takes a few steps forward, coming to stand abreast of the far side of table.

 _Fine work,_ the rumbling voice says, a screeching of gears echoing not through the air but through your mind. Rhythmic blasts of bellows-air still resonate somewhere beyond the immediate world, like the exhalation of lungs, and the air of the room is hotter than it was before, the metal tang raking through your nose. _Particularly for someone who does not make her trade in the forge._

Your hands are mostly steady around Modwyr's hilt, and you lower her slightly, transferring her to one hand and letting the tip of the sword droop down towards the ground. As far as gods go, you suppose you've got no bone to pick with this one, and you relax a little further. "I would have thought that you, of all people, would see soul traces as cheating."

Abydon extends a single metallic hand and rests it over Whispers. A periodic drone just outside of ordinary hearing, like the scrape of grit, digs into your ears. _You used what tools and skills were available to you,_ the god of the forge says. _And you brought your own mastery of soul work to the table._ He lowers a finger to tap at the pommel, at the shard of adra now grafted there. _What matters more is that you have cared for this weapon and the others you bonded to it. They yearn for your hand._ The figure's head swivels again, to look directly at you -- or at the blade you hold. _As does your rude companion._

Modwyr's hilt grows hot in your grip. "I don't care _who_ you are. It might not kill ya, but you'll feel my sting."

Abydon lowers his hand and wraps it around Whispers of Yenwood's hilt. He lifts the sword gently, into a ceremonial pose held flush, and the grit-scrape grows louder, rattling about the confines of your head. _My apologies,_ he says, flame-eyes still fixed on Modwyr as the rest of his body rotates to face you. _You are made of even finer work._

"Well," Modwyr says, her voice less sharp and more pleased, her hilt less hot and more warm, "as long as we're all aware of that..."

With a sigh, you set her back down against the wall, and when you turn to face Abydon again, the figure stands on the near side of the work table now, Whispers still held horizontal and reverential in its grip -- the only thing between you and the construct. The burning eyes study you, and you swallow the urge to put your back up against the door again.

Instead, you rest a hand on your hip and level your gaze at Abydon, like he isn't a head or three taller than you and eerily reminiscent of an Eyeless. "Did you want your hammer back? Because it's a little late for that."

 _There is no need,_ Abydon rumbles, and there's just enough room between his head and the ceiling for the joke to sail past. A corner of your mouth twitches unbidden. _I have forged myself another, and you have put what remains of the old to good use._ The figure twists Whispers around so that its hilt faces you and steps forward, proffering the sword, as the disembodied scraping noise fades from your awareness. _It has been yours for many years._

When you accept it, carefully navigating around the wires not yet fully affixed to the hilt, Whispers feels different in your hand, though nothing has changed in length or width or weight. But you know how divine blessing sparks beneath your fingertips. "So you stopped by to give me a gift, then?"

 _You will find that this blade leverages strength far beyond yours,_ Abydon says, and the figure steps back, sweeping a metal hand towards the work table. _Consider it a gesture of gratitude, for your part in restoring me._

Slowly, you approach the work table and set Whispers down, though you don't reach for your tools again. You look up at Abydon instead, your gaze searching, as if that will reveal motive to you. He doesn't ring in your cipher's senses -- he isn't physically here, and so it's harder to get a handle on the ebb and flow of his thoughts. "I didn't really do anything."

The construct faces you across the table, still and hulking as a mountain. _Had you not followed your curiosity,_ Abydon says, _my Eyeless would not have returned to me. And had you not stayed your hand,_ the rumble of his voice deepens like a roll of thunder, and the forge behind him flares, and a shiver creeps up your spine, _Ondra would have seen me remain bereft of memory. A shadow of my true self._

Your hand itches with the reflexive instinct to latch onto Whispers of Yenwood's hilt again, but all you do is flex your fingers against the table instead. "I don't tamper with people's minds," you say, the words bitter on your tongue, "unless I think they deserve it. And I didn't think you deserved it." You force yourself to look directly into the construct's burning eyes. "Are you going to give me a reason to regret that?"

 _You have my favor, Watcher,_ Abydon says, a softer rumble, _not my enmity._

"Hmm," you say, and finally, you take a seat upon the stool you'd vacated. You pull Whispers closer and pick up the cutter, returning your attention to the wire you'd been busy shaving down. "If you just wanted to thank me," you continue, peering closely at the wire and snipping, "you would've done that years ago."

 _Did you not find your innovative endeavors fruitful and functional over the years?_ Abydon asks, and you pause with pliers to wire, frowning, before resuming and gently bending the wire into position. You don't like the idea of any god having their eyes on you while you remain at unawares. _Though my brother has seen to their destruction._

You set the pliers down decisively, when the wire is in place. Only a few more left to shape, and the sword will be done. "And I'm not an errand girl," you say, flat, "if you've got something to say to him."

A noise rather like rock grinding together resounds through your head, and behind it, something like a laugh. _If I wanted you to pass along a message,_ Abydon says, _we would be having this conversation in Berath's realm._

Your fingers pause around the cutter, and you glance up and up into the metal face of the construct, interested despite yourself. The metal tang of his thoughts is not as clear to you as it would be, if the manifestation before you was a soul in the physical realm, but your Watcher's ear hears enough. "Ondra was worried about what would happen, if you remembered," you say, slow and curious. "She seemed to think it would... cause strife."

For a moment, the apparition wavers, its edges bleeding outward and its center flickering. Behind it, you see something else, something you couldn't name or define if you wanted to, and the sockets of your eyes hurt with it, but you don't look away. _Eothas has grown increasingly at odds with us,_ Abydon says, as the construct shudders and reforms. _You are only witnessing the latest. And I... am beginning to understand._ The construct moves, bending its great head to peer down at you -- or rather, at the sword beneath your hands. _You have no love for the gods, either._

Calmly, you set the cutter down, move Whispers out of the way, and place your palms flat on the table. You push yourself up, so that you are nearly face-to-face with the construct. It relents somewhat, craning its head back, and something like victory straightens your shoulders.

"How much?" you ask. "How much was lost, because your kind had to go and remake the entire world in your image? How many lives and cultures were destroyed, if they didn't serve _your_ purpose? How much further along would we be without you? How many kith have suffered or died over the years, just because we didn't have access to resources, or know things about the soul that we might have known otherwise?" You smile, bitter and angry. "Progress isn't linear, but you know damn well that you drove us backwards to serve your ends."

 _I know,_ Abydon says, the ring of iron against steel and the rush of bellows against coal.

You settle back onto the stool, an ache stabbing through your head like he'd just rung a gong in your ear, but you don't take your eyes from his. "Then what are you going to do about it?"

The construct unbends, though its head remains fixed downward, its gaze fixed on you. _I do not know what Eothas plans,_ Abydon says, _but I know that he intends change. When that happens, the balance of power will shift. Our peace will shatter, as Ondra feared. I will see to that,_ he adds, a growl like an earthquake, and you place a hand on Whispers before you remember yourself. You draw the sword close again, picking up the cutter once more. _Some of us see this as a test for mortals. I disagree. This is a chance. I would make allies out of kith, not experiments._ The construct's head inclines once, a grating mechanical swivel. _No work is done in isolation._

The cutter hangs loose in your grip as you listen, and most of your suspicion trickles away at last. You aren't in the habit of trusting gods or the things they say, but no guile winds through Abydon's words or thoughts. His candor is blistering, the forge behind him radiating with it.

"Work?" you ask, cautious nonetheless.

 _I would see kith restored,_ Abydon says, _as I was. I come to offer you my gratitude, Watcher, but not by strengthening the swing of your sword. You will have your say in how the winds change, before this ends. It is in your nature, Hound of Eothas._

Slowly, deliberately, you put the cutter down once more and stand, pushing the stool back and stepping around the table. The construct rotates to follow you, though it remains planted against the floor like a tree. "Restored," you say, as you bury your need to pace and instead only cross the room to scoop up Modwyr. You frown down at her sheath as you turn around to face Abydon again. "Do _you_ know what that means, Modwyr?"

"Sounds like more meddling to me," the sword says easily, like she was only pretending to sleep.

"What would you do, if you wanted to _restore_ kith?" you ask her.

"Well," Modwyr muses, as you drift back towards the work table, pointedly ignoring the construct's burning gaze, "I'd start with people who don't treat their weapons right, for one. Something's got to be done. Maybe restore myself while I'm at it, though I couldn't tell you who I was before all this."

You nod, setting her down to lean against the table instead, and you lift your eyes to Abydon's as you do, your face set in challenge, your voice hard. "Does that sound like what you have in mind?"

The construct ceases its slow rotation and faces you squarely, as solid and unmoving as ever, but something bemused simmers beneath the surface of the apparition. _Berath is right,_ Abydon says. _You are most argumentative._

"I'm just getting started," you say, smiling tightly, and you take a seat once more. "If you asked a hundred kith what they thought was best, they'd give you a hundred different answers. I don't speak for us all, and _you_ certainly don't. I speak for myself, and me? I'm going to dive as deep as I can into every last corner of soul work, into everything your kind doesn't want me to see."

 _You are naive,_ Abydon says, _if you think that what you find will not ripple outward to all kith regardless._

"Maybe it will," you say, "but that's for me to deal with. I don't really care what the gods do, when you're not sucking up kith souls. If you want to war with each other and kill each other off, go ahead. But if you want to help me? If you want my advice? Make sure that whatever fight you have amongst yourselves doesn't reach the surface and rebound on kith. And make sure that the others get out of my fucking way."

The only sound that follows is the crackling of the forge, and the distant, ethereal breaths of bellows-air, and you wonder if you've managed to anger him, until Abydon laughs with the pealing of gears cascading into motion, and the construct shakes with it. _I see why you vex and amuse the Twinned God in equal measure._

"Try dealing with her every day," Modwyr chimes in.

 _She delivers tall orders, does she not?_ Abydon agrees. _But ones worthy of contemplation._ The construct's eyes are yawning and fiery as they regard you, but you can see those gears turning behind them. You can hear the iron ringing of his thoughts, meditative and grave. _You would ask me to stand between gods and kith._

"You did it before," you say, and your voice is no longer so hard, so caustic. "But I don't mean the things we've made. I mean _kith_. Every soul that gets crushed in your fallout is someone who could have gone on to make something. If you care about that, then mitigate whatever you can, when the balance tips. We'll figure ourselves out in the meantime." You pause, then add, "Just... try not to get killed this time. I didn't put all that work into accidentally summoning the Eyeless for nothing."

The burning eyes bore into you, and the construct stoops again. Its metal hand splays over Whispers, pushing the sword back across the table to you, and you force yourself not to recoil in the face of the advance. _The Seeker has forgotten how to seek,_ Abydon says, _but you have not. And if you have need of me, while you seek the depths of the soul,_ the metal fingers uncurl from Whispers, as if presenting it to you, _I will be close. Farewell, Watcher._

The forge winks out, as if it had never been lit in the first place, and the weapons on the racks around the room appear whole, as if the metal had never been stripped from them. The construct is nowhere to be found. Only the sharp scent of heat and metal remains in the air, lingering around the work table and Whispers. Only an echo of clanging iron remains in your ears, fast fading.

"Gods are fucking weird," Modwyr says.

"Tell me about it," you say, and you sigh and pull Whispers close once more.

* * *

When you emerge from the back room, you are rather dazed to discover that evening has fallen outside in Periki's Overlook, dying orange light drifting through the darkened windows. Edér leans on the counter, chatting with Marihi, and they break off their conversation and turn when you emerge. Marihi claps her hands together in anticipation, while Edér jerks his thumb at her.

"She wouldn't let me go back there to check on you," he says. "Said some kinda magic was happening, and I'd ruin it."

Marihi comes forward at once, her eyes shining. "Let us see what you have wrought."

Slowly, as if waking from a dream, you bring Whispers up and lay it out on the counter, while the three of you gather around to view it. The sword glistens in the lamplight, and the adra and copper now drilled into the pommel glitter as they catch the light of evening. Marihi makes a soft, appreciative sound, but Edér's eyes shift between you and the sword, studying. You have a hard time looking directly at him, though you aren't sure why.

"Ekera," Marihi says, running a hand down the length of the blade and then bringing her fingers around to touch the pommel, "this was finished in an afternoon? That does not seem possible."

"I think you were right," you say, blinking heavily, "about Abydon's, ah... hand. On the hammer." Finally, you meet Edér's gaze and lift your eyebrows significantly. _Literally,_ you add silently, nudging the word into his mind.

Edér blinks rapidly at you, his face freezing in surprise, before he heaves a silent sigh and raises his eyes skyward, though you aren't sure if he's bemoaning you or the gods in that moment. Probably both.

"I knew it," Marihi says fervently. "The god of the forge has favored you today. This blade is twice blessed, I say." She gives you a congratulatory clap on the shoulder, and you start and steady yourself against the counter. "It only needs to be rechristened, and your work will be complete."

Your mind goes blank as Marihi watches you expectantly, and Edér smirks, before leaning lazily against the counter once more and mirroring Marihi's anticipatory look. "It already has a name," you say, a little defensively, but Marihi doesn't look satisfied with that, a scowl appearing between her eyes, so you turn to Edér with a sigh. "You're the one who got the hammer and Spring out for me," you say, and you ignore his growing amusement. "You name it."

Edér shrugs as he laughs silently at you. "Uh," he says, and he becomes a little thoughtful as he looks down at the blade, "Whispers of Spring?" He lifts his eyes to give you a dry look. "That wasn't so hard."

It's Marihi's turn to sigh. "It will do," she says, clearly disappointed with such an anticlimactic christening, and you tip her a few extra pires before you take your leave.

"You gonna take up dual-wielding now?" Edér says outside of the shop, as you begin the long walk back to _The Defiant._ He nods in your general direction, eyes on the two swords now attached to either side of your belt.

You manage not to miss a step, though the statement gives you pause and nearly shakes you out of the odd stupor clinging to you like mist and fogging your mind. You aren't sure what you plan to do with Whispers, actually. It's been fitted to accommodate housed essence, in the same manner as your pendant, but there's a reason why you only wear the pendant and no other jewelry. You mentor had amplified her focus with similar ornamentation, an unstoppable force of concentrated power. She'd been excellent at the two-weapon style of fighting, too.

"No," you say, and you don't let moody reminiscence slip into your voice. "It just... needed to be done."

"I'm still her favorite," Modwyr adds, not at all afraid to sound moody.

"You are," you say firmly, and Edér grins. "Thank you, by the way," you add, and his eyes flick back up to you. "For digging those out for me."

Edér nods, something curious in the look he gives you. "Sure," he says, like it was any old favor, and then, a bit eagerly: "So... Abydon, huh?"

It takes most of the walk back to _The Defiant_ to exhaust the story and the speculation that follows, but every step and every word feels like it pulls you a little more out of the dream that had overtaken you, grounding you in something a little more real: in Edér's voice, and in Modwyr's presence, and in Whispers of Spring humming at your side.


End file.
